Lost Causes
by ruerox11
Summary: "That's just us, Mr. Holmes. A bunch of lost causes." John and Irene both stand by his grave that day, with very different results.


It's a nice day. It's like it's mocking them. Mocking _him_.

He and Mrs. Hudson sit in silence in the cab on the way, the old woman clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline.

He doesn't want to step foot outside the car. It's too much. He can't do it. He can't.

Mr. Hudson sees him hesitate, fist wrapped tightly around the handle of the door. She reaches out, tentatively, knowing how easily he is set off these days. He flinches as her fingers touch his shoulder, and he clenches his jaw, refusing to break down. He blinks rapidly and settles a mask of uninterestedness on his face. It's his army mask, the one he perfected in Afghanistan. The one that shows no fear, no sorrow, no joy. It is blank, emotionless.

He gets out of the car.

Now they're in the church. He doesn't even remember walking there but now he's staring at Saint Jude's stained-glass face and knows that he's the patron saint of lost causes and can't help feeling that this is slightly poetic.

At least it's not Saint Bartholomew.

Sherlock wasn't religious, believed only in science, but Mycroft wanted some sort of ceremony. He hasn't seen much of the elder Holmes brother lately. Who could blame him for staying away, away from the man he's broken forever?

The minister is asking now, asking if anyone has a story they'd like to share. Some stand up. Lestrade tells of the first time he met Sherlock, how fantastic he'd been on a case. Molly hesitantly stammers something about him complimenting her. Mrs. Hudson chokes something out about eyeballs and microwaves, and has to stop as Molly hands her tissues. They're all looking at him now.

His mask is still on, but behind it he's irate. These people, they think he'll just tell them all of his stories. About what it was like, being flatmates. About being partners-in-crime, him blogging and Sherlock forgetting his pants. They think he'll just give that up.

They're _wrong_.

Those are his memories, _his_ stories, all _his _and Sherlock's. All of their working and eating and thinking and running that they did _together_. They were all _his_ to remember and Sherlock's to forget and _no one else could have them._

Silently he shook his head at the minister and the service moved along. They were processing out now, to the garden, with its tall, sad trees and there's his headstone looming grey in the bright light. He wants to go and never come back, and never see this god-awful thing again but he can't, he's got to go with the rest of them.

Some of them leave flowers, pray over the grave, say their last goodbye. Mycroft is the first to go. Men in black melt out of the shadows and attach themselves to his sides as he makes his way to his nondescript car and is driven away.

And now there's this woman, an older ginger lady, who comes up to him to say how _sorry_ she is. How Sherlock helped find her son's murderer and how she's so grateful and he doesn't want to say it but he's too sick and tired to remember her so he just nods politely and thanks her for being there.

Slowly they're all leaving, Lestrade and Molly and Mike Stamford and Henry Knight and Ella and every last tie he has to the world is falling away. And he has to tell Mrs. Hudson that he's not _that_ angry but it's a lie because every last good thing he was was with Sherlock and if he knows him well enough (which he does, he knows him better than anyone) then he thought over everything. He knew every option and he went and jumped of off a _hospital_ and didn't think about John at all. Didn't think about what would happen to his poor flatmate's already-shattered mind and probably didn't care because he was Sherlock Holmes, registered sociopath, and he didn't do _feelings._

And he asks him for one more miracle, just one, for him, for John. The stupid person less stupid than the stupid people, the one who always bought milk, and made Sherlock eat, even in the middle of big cases that were more important than physical sustenance, and didn't even bug him about the toes in the freezer next to John's favorite coffee ice cream and just wanted him to _come home please._

_Just come home._

_For me._

.

They're all gone now, even John. She'd watched him from a distance, watched him break down for the first time and knew how he felt. Not to that degree. She knew she'd never understand what it felt like to be standing there, losing everything.

Sherlock Holmes had captivated her. He was something wonderful and new and she'd fancied him like a teenage schoolgirl. But she knew how much deeper it went with them, the instant she saw his face, picture perfect, barely a bruise to be had. He could tell the whole world he's as straight as uncooked spaghetti but John Watson was a 'confirmed bachelor' and would always love Sherlock Holmes.

She felt bad for the poor man, she really did. Not many people could do that to her. Those tortured eyes, they killed her.

She looked down on the cold grey slab, so unforgiving, and knows it's goodbye. She'd say something nice but the words won't come so she settles for pulling out her phone and sends one last text, thinking that maybe he's reading it up above somewhere and might smile.

**Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. Xoxo**

The lonely old ginger woman stuffs her hands in her pockets and sighs deeply, taking a few precious moments to maintain her composure.

And opens them again when she hears that soft sigh, that lovely, _lovely_ sound that saved her life, coming from directly behind her.

She doesn't dare believe it. She can't turn around. There's no way. She hacked every CCTV camera on the street to watch footage of the fall. It's impossible. He's dead. She's standing at his grave.

And yet there's his calculating, precise voice, incredulous, as if he can't understand what he's reading.

"These x's and o's are clearly meant to stand for _hugs_ and _kisses_. Ridiculous, by the way, how could anyone take an _o_ from the word _hug?_ Never mind that, is there something you're not telling me, Ms. Adler? And you've gone ginger," he comments mildly. "Not exactly the best look, I'm afraid."

"Couldn't come looking like me," she replies evenly, still not facing him. "I'm supposed to be headless and six feet under."

"So am I," he remarks, and she spins around to find oh God it's _really him_ and she can't help feeling elated as she throws her arms around his thin body and victorious as he stiffens at the unexpected touch. She takes in his eyes, those cheekbones, that same old scarf, just as usual, and is lighter than air.

She pulls away, remarking, "Oh, I'll take care of the hugs, Mr. Holmes. Leave the x's for your John."

He rolls his eyes. "Still not gay."

"Confirmed bachelor," she reminds him, "_confirmed bachelor. _Who knows, maybe you've got a chance!"

He takes this more solemnly than she expects. "After what I've put him through?"

She thinks, tilting her head to the side. "He's spared your face once, Mr. Holmes, I suppose he'll do it again."

"Of course," she adds, when he looks a little relieved, "We can't be too sure."

To which he scowls.

"I must admit, these trivial… _emotions_, as it were, are not my strongest suit. However, I have come to conclude…" He trailed off, unsure. She waits expectantly.

"He looks worse. Than before, before I met him. Like he's… broken… No, not broken, _lost_."

She weaves her arm through his bent elbow and rests her head on his shoulder. "He is. He hasn't got his mad sociopathic roomie to look after him."

She can't see his face, but she knows he's glaring.

"Really though…" she begins, "He is. We all are. That's just us, Mr. Holmes, a bunch of lost causes."

.

**So… yeah. Just some Reichenbach feels coming out in the form of pure angst…**

**A few things:**

**No, I don't know how he got his phone back. Let's say Molly nicked it for him or something.**

**I don't necessarily think Irene has romantic feelings toward Sherlock at this point in time. I'd like to believe she's just very happy to have her playmate back, or else she might be bored or something of that nature.**

'**Confirmed bachelor', for those that may not know, is a nice way of saying "he's totally gay but won't come out and tell everyone", so in terms of what the press said about John… well. Apparently they've been shipping Johnlock just as long as we have!**

**Questions, comments, concerns, etc… there's the review box!**

**-ruerox11**


End file.
